The Hunter of Pirates

"What a lively scene."

The blond teenager who pushed the door open and entered the tavern was the pipe-carrying young man who had arrived earlier that day in Mad Hat Town.

With a light press of his finger against the brim of his hat, a faint smile appeared on his lips.

The tavern was almost at full capacity, but the table where Mobin sat had two unoccupied seats, standing out conspicuously.

Without hesitation, the pipe-carrying youth walked straight toward Mobin's table.

Unfamiliar with the undertaker profession, he had no notions of superstition or disgust.

Reaching one of the empty seats, he glanced at Mobin, who sat silently behind his mask, and took a seat without a word.

In this carefree and easygoing tavern, seating was informal—if there was a spot, you sat; if there wasn't, you stood. No one needed anyone's permission to sit or stand anywhere.

After sitting down, the youth kept an eye on Mobin's reaction from the corner of his eye while signaling to one of the busy waitresses bustling about like ants on a hot griddle to place an order.

Mobin watched the newly seated youth. The dark-tinted sunglasses he wore felt oddly out of place in the dimly lit room.

To conceal his scrutiny, Mobin finally started eating the bar snacks he had ordered long ago.

A few moments later, a waitress hurried over, holding a tray, and softly asked the young man what he would like to order.

The youth smiled and ordered a beer and some bar snacks.

"Please wait a moment."

After jotting down the order, the waitress quickly retreated.

As time passed, establishments near the Mad Hat Auction House—such as taverns, restaurants, and casinos—were packed to the brim.

Most attendees brought along large entourages, but the auction house only allowed each guest to bring two companions inside, leaving the rest to wait outside. Taverns and similar places became their temporary havens.

If the pipe-carrying youth hadn't taken the seat, someone else surely would have. And if it had been a domineering pirate, Mobin might have been threatened into giving up his table.

From this perspective, having a seemingly amicable youth occupy one of the seats unintentionally reduced potential trouble for Mobin.

After placing his order, the youth leaned back, only to be nudged by the pipe strapped to his back. He unfastened it and set it on the table.

Mobin glanced at the simple-looking pipe, a flash of intrigue crossing his eyes.

Using a pipe as a weapon... quite unconventional.

"Mind if I do?"

The youth noticed Mobin looking at the pipe and smiled faintly.

Mobin stayed silent.

You act first, then ask permission.

Clearly, this guy was used to doing as he pleased.

Seeing Mobin's silence, the youth used it as an opening to start a conversation:

"I saw several people wearing masks like yours on the street today. Heard it's part of a profession called undertaker. So, are you an undertaker too?"

While speaking, the youth split his attention, listening intently to the conversations of nearby pirates, hoping to glean useful information.

Before the auction began, he and Clara had split up to gather intel by any means possible.

Mobin didn't speak but nodded dismissively, his focus also on eavesdropping.

Thus, the youth kept chatting intermittently, while Mobin responded with occasional nods or head shakes, avoiding verbal replies.

Though outwardly casual, both were quietly gathering information.

Fate, as it were, had brought them to the same table.

After some time, both began to notice something unusual about the other.

Perhaps by coincidence, their gazes met briefly, then quickly shifted away.

"This guy…"

Both thought the same thing.

Mobin narrowed his eyes.

The youth raised an eyebrow.

"What's his story?"

Each pondered silently.

The atmosphere at the table instantly dropped to freezing.

Creak—

The tavern door opened.

A pale man with a cane and a sinister air entered.

It was none other than Laffitte, the infamous "Devil Sheriff" known throughout the West Blue.

He had once been a local law enforcement officer, but his notorious abuse of power earned him a bad reputation, ultimately leading to his expulsion.

Afterward, he naturally turned to piracy, though his infamous moniker persisted, a testament to the degree of his notoriety.

Laffitte scanned the room and immediately spotted the last empty seat in the tavern—at Mobin and the youth's table.

He headed straight for it.

Many pirates paused their drinking and chatting to watch him, wary due to his recent killing spree.

Laffitte's presence, fueled by his reputation, dampened the lively atmosphere.

Mobin recognized Laffitte instantly—his distinctive appearance and attire left no room for doubt.

Isn't he one of Blackbeard's crew?

What's he doing here?

Mobin's eyes flickered with unease.

Though Laffitte's appearances in the original story were sparse, his distinctive personality made him memorable. Mobin's sharp eye for detail allowed him to identify Laffitte at a glance.

Should I make a move?

Noticing Laffitte approaching, Mobin glanced at the empty seat next to him and felt a headache coming on.

Maybe I should leave first.

Mobin's gaze subtly shifted toward a table five or six meters away.

He had been observing its occupants for some time. One of them, boasting about his bounty, had become Mobin's target—a walking treasure chest.

He had planned to tail the man after he left the tavern and strike.

But Laffitte's arrival forced a change of plans.

I can still wait outside to ambush him.

While Mobin was weighing his options, Laffitte leisurely took a seat.

Mobin prepared to retreat.

The youth, however, remained unfazed, standing out from the cautious pirates around them.

Ignoring the wary stares, Laffitte calmly prepared to order.

But just as he opened his mouth, the tavern door slammed open with a loud crash.

The sudden noise drew everyone's attention to the entrance.

Two pirates with ferocious expressions stormed in, their pistols raised without a word.

Their guns were aimed directly at Laffitte.

Bang! Bang!

Two gunshots shot the silence.

As the echoes faded, the room fell deathly quiet.

The two pirates at the door stood frozen, their expressions stiff.

Each bore a bullet hole in the center of their forehead, thin wisps of smoke rising from the wounds.

The room's atmosphere shifted abruptly.

All eyes turned toward the source of the gunfire—a masked undertaker silently holstering his pistols.

"What fast hands…!"

Someone muttered in disbelief.

The youth's hand, resting on his pipe, paused as he glanced at Mobin in surprise.

Next to him, Laffitte, gripping his cane, looked equally astonished.

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